WHF The Tale of du Fonte
by Dan the Zombie
Summary: A story I wrote for a fanfiction competition on the Black Library Forums. Bretonnian knights take on some skaven.


Legends of Bordeleaux: The Tale of DuFonte

By Dan Pickens

Reynald bent down to move the pig at this feet that had been standing there for some while, and the farmer knew was about to soil on his foot. The warm afternoon sun beat down on him, the humidity making his skin sticky and his clothes uncomfortable. After successfully moving the pig with the shaft of his pitchfork, Reynald looked out towards the edge of the forest beyond the wooden fence of his farm.

Far to the North West was his lord's castle, the home of Baron Simone du Lyone, the third cousin of the current Duke of the Lyonesse family line. The local sheriff had a habit of reminding people how lucky they were to live in a realm of a direct bloodline baron, but Reynald had never felt that the land was any more honorable than anywhere else he'd been. His little pig farm was two hours' journey on foot to the nearest market, a thorpe called Gaston. Gaston was pitiful, and several merchants had packed up and left in the past season because the economy was failing, but Reynald called this place home. He knew that after Gaston, it was a two day trip to Lys Du Bane, the next closest market (which was in Mousillon). He would have to reevaluate provisions.

His largest pig, Marie, had made her way to the fence and was snorting loudly, digging at the base of it. Reynald looked for his dog, but the animal was nowhere to be found. Cursing under his breath, he trotted across the beaten grass to go remove his wayward pig from the fence.

As he approached the fence, however, his ears picked up on something odd. Other than Marie's snorting and scraping, the sounds of the local birds were gone. Reynald's eyes narrowed as he scanned the wood line, looking for the source of the quietness.

A hushed coughing from somewhere several yards into the wood made Reynald's gaze flicker to the brush suddenly. He shooed his wayward pig quietly, urging her to return to her comrades, but she continued snuffling away. Leaning left and right, Reynald completely failed to get a better idea of who was coughing beyond the shrubbery.

"Hello? I just want to warn you, if you've come to poach my farm, that I'm well armed!" Reynald said rather unconvincingly, holding up his pitchfork defensively. The shoddy farmer's tool looked harmless in the elderly man's pale, skinny arms. Once again he heard the quiet coughing sound, and began to wonder if it was some kind of fay trap.

"You are on the property of my Lord, Baron Simone du Lyone!" he called out, a slight quaver in his voice. "If you do not leave I shall be forced to summon the sheriff!"

The only answer he received was more of the quiet coughing, though it seemed it was more hackneyed than before. Cautiously, he stepped over the fence. Looking swiftly back at Marie, he urged her once more to return to the sty.

Marie objected with a whine, but turned and trotted back to her colleagues. After having dispatched the pig, Reynald crept into the woods further, pitchfork at the ready and hands shaking.

"Where are you at?" he called out unconfidently.

"Here," he was surprised to hear from beside him.

Sitting on a kite shield at the base of a tree, wearing a beaten and burned breastplate, was an old man. His face was bleeding profusely beneath his chainmail hood, and he bore a black and yellow tunic. At his side was a long sword, drawn and bloody, chinks up and down what was clearly once a fine blade.

"A questing knight!" Reynald exclaimed under his breath, and knelt before the downed soldier.

"Once, yes," agreed the knight. His face was heavily lined beneath the blood, and a gray beard grew from his wide jaw. His eyebrows were gray and thick, hung on a heavy brow above his graying eyes. "I have passed such quests to become known as a Knight of the Grail."

The knight made obeisance to the Grail as Reynald's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"I have a mission of great importance," stated the grail knight simply.

"I will seek help, my lord!" cried Reynald, and he stood up quickly.

"No," insisted the grail knight, waving Reynald to come close. "I am going to pass soon, man, and I must tell you what still needs to be done."

"But I cannot –" started Reynald, but soon he remembered himself and took a knee beside the dying knight. "Of course, my Lord. I shall listen intently."

"Good man," said the grail knight, and he began his tale.

********

My name is George duFonte, the former Marquis of a small town of the same name. One hundred and twenty five years ago I drank from the Lady's Most Holy Grail, and since then have served at the great chapels of Bordeleaux until a recent quest of great importance has brought me elsewhere. My retinue has been all but obliterated on this quest, and each man who passed shall be remembered in my tale here as having died most honorably serving the Lady of the Lake, save one heretical man who was Imperial by nationality.

I lived most of my days in a cloister as part of my chapel, serving as the law keeper in my parish for a good many years. Without being immodest, I was looked up to and respected by my community, and so it was no surprise that the Imperial mercenary by the name of Stadtz sought me out in reference to what he called a quest of great importance to the future of the Bretonnian race.

Naturally I turned the fool down, his tall tales meaning little to me in the face of my duties. Yet day after day he returned to me and insisted that his quest was of issue to me until finally I asked him what the quest entailed. Having heard it I became quite infuriated, but my blade was stayed by the presence of my faithful servant-girl, Loren.

Stadtz told me a tale of beasts who stalked the Forest of Ghâlons and who sought the destruction of our kingdom and the seizure of the lands of Bordeleaux. Frequently his descriptions of the Forest of Ghâlons resembled more the Forest of Arden, and the more he repeated these mistakes the more I corrected him on it. How or why he ended up in my parish I did not understand, but he seemed to me to be scheming to take what little gold we possessed.

When asked what these creatures looked like he told me they were as giant rats that walked like men, and though I have heard of such creatures as the foul skaven before, they have never been tolerated by the folk of the forest. Surely, I surmised, if the skaven were in the forests then there would be evidence of it: smoke or decay or some other such signal.

"These skaven are different," Stadtz insisted. "They are taller and thinner, they don't use war machines like their brethren."

"Your stories are too wild," I told him, and dismissed him from my chapel.

By mid-day on the day I had asked him to tell me of his quest, Stadtz had spread word through my villages that the skaven were coming, in great quantities, to eliminate this parish. He made up wild stories about how the creatures would eat our children and commit lewd acts against our womenfolk. It was not long before one of the knights of the realm brought him back to me, this time as a prisoner.

He was in the stockade that evening, calling out what sounded at the time like the cries of a madman. My brother monks told me that I was being far too generous with the man, but, despite my distaste for the Imperial, insisted that he be shown the Lady's mercy in hopes that he would calm down and leave our lands.

That night passed with little sleep, his calling making rest difficult. Several times he was visited by the monks who would lash him until he stopped screaming. Within minutes of their departure, however, he resumed his cries of warning. By daybreak I decided that the Lady's mercy would last no longer, and went to the stockade where he was still trying to yell hoarsely. He looked up at me, no fear in his eyes.

"You have come to kill me?" he asked simply.

I nodded, unsheathing my sword and approaching the stockade casually. It was not frequent in my parish, but over one hundred and twenty five years, a disciplinarian will occasionally have to serve the Lady's justice, so I was prepared to do my part.

"My Lord DuFonte," he said, looking as best he could to meet my eyes. Unperturbed, I answered him.

"Your last words had best be begging forgiveness for disrupting the sanctuary of my chapel," I warned him.

"Let me take a single man to scout it out," he said, his voice still raw. "I swear to you that I am telling the truth. It's not about the money anymore; God-Emperor take it all!"

My eyes narrowed at the mention of his deistic ruler. I raised my sword in both hands to prepare for the killing blow.

"You would not even take the word of your most trusted brother?" he cried, his eyes widening in terror. "Send him with me and I will show him where the skaven hide! It will only be a day or so before they attack now, I am sure of it!"

"Do you think I am so stupid?" I asked him. "That I would send my dearest brother alone with you to be murdered and robbed at the edge of the Forest of Ghâlons?"

"Send a retinue then!" he screamed. "An army! They will overrun you if we do not act first!"

Something in his fervor held my blade, and I looked behind me at the chapel. The bright morning sun shone through the stained glass windows, making the delicate form of the Lady glow brilliantly before me.

"If you are telling the truth," I said, "and the skaven do arrive, we will crush them. With the blessing of our Lady, we cannot fail."

"I respect that, yeah," said the Imperial, his body squirming behind the stockade now. "But you could get the jump on them, eh? That'll take care of the problem and you'll lose fewer men. Better for you, right?"

"Right," I said, and I brought the blade down short, breaking his closest wrist with the grip of my blade. He cried in agony, and I reached for my key to unlock him.

"Why…?" he sobbed. "Why… did you do that?"

"To warn you not to try anything when I let you out," I said, and removed the padlock from the stockade, my blade still in hand. Stadtz stood when released from the stockade, and pathetically nursed his injured wrist.

"Alright, you nutter," he said, looking at me through narrow eyes. "But if I'm right you owe me one."

"I shall be the judge of that," I replied, and sheathed my sword.

********

DuFonte coughed heavily and shifted his weight. His head nodded, and Reynald moved to support the wounded soldier. Reynald pulled his canteen from his side and dripped some water into duFonte's mouth.

"Come now," Reynald coaxed. "Earth Mother won't take you yet, you haven't finished telling me your story. It is important, my Lord, please proceed."

"Fear not, man," said duFonte, coughing up blood, "I have survived much to reach this point, I shall survive a short while longer."

The grail knight reached unsteadily into his tunic and produced a wad of cloth, which he held up to Reynald. Reynald took the wad of cloth reverently in both hands and looked at it in awe. He had received a gift from a grail knight, and it was the most honorable thing he had ever received. Tears welled up in Reynald's eyes.

"Give this to your Lord Baron, man," duFonte said. "After I am done telling you what happened."

********

The retinue we rode out with was eleven men total, including Stadtz and myself. My brother knights Leonne, Caldisse, Libeaux and his cousin Monteaux, Llewelyn, Graives, the twins Bleusouche (Andrew and Alex), and Devoirlié, who were all questing knights except for Devoirlié (who was a Knight of the Grail like myself). Our small band of attendants travelled with us, of course, though none deserves special mention save for my own faithful servant Ardur, and Caldisse's page whose name was Felix.

We rode to the forest unmolested, to a spot where Stadtz said there would be a secret entrance among the trees. No markings showed the territory to be heavily guarded by the wood folk, but we proceeded with respectful caution. Nothing in the forest seemed out of place, which failed to help the increasingly anxious Imperial as he went from tree to tree and bush to bush in search of his fabled secret entrance. For an hour we let him squabble about while the twins fetched us some bread from the most adjacent hamlet.

"They must have buried it and moved on," Stadtz repeated for what could have been the hundredth time that afternoon. "They could already be on the move."

It was brother Devoirlié who angrily answered him. "There are no signs of skaven perfidy here, Imperial. No signs of any large troop movements. There are scarcely signs of animals larger than a doe here!"

"But I swear it was here that I- ah!" Stadtz seemed to have found something in the brush, and drew his short sword from a scabbard on his side. Reaching into the brush with the blade, he carefully lifted a metal trap, resembling the sharp jaws of a vicious beast. Its design was not dissimilar to hunting traps of human craft, but its crude cut and rusted appearance gave the impression that its builders were far less skilled than men. "What did I tell you? Evidence that I was right!"

My brothers and I exchanged unconvinced glances, but Stadtz seemed pleased enough with himself to trudge into the brush. It was only after two more steps that a loud clank, crack, and his horrified yelp informed us that there was a veritable field of these devices lying underfoot for what seemed to be a great distance into the brush.

"By the Lady's Grace!" Graives exclaimed, and he made ready his lance, looking about the trees warily.

"We should not have come here without the protection of bowmen," said Monteaux, his horse cantering backwards from the apparent field of hunter's traps. "We may be chivalrous men but there is much treachery here."

"With the blessing of the Lady our enemies shall yet succumb to us, cousin," Libeaux reassured Monteaux, though his horse was also uneasy.

"Does not one of you care that I am trapped here?" cried the mercenary, whose face was streaked with tears. "Will you not help me?"

As though it troubled him greatly, Devoirlié dismounted his horse with a sigh and approached Stadtz's side carefully. He looked into the brush and reported that he could see many more traps, as we had suspected, and drew his sword.

"Now, now, friend," protested Stadtz, realizing the fate of his lost leg. "You can simply pry the trap off, and perhaps I might keep my leg!"

But Devoirlié did not deign to answer the mercenary, instead slicing clean a stump halfway up the leg. He went back to his horse and retrieved some cloth, with which he began to bandage up Stadtz's heavily bleeding leg. Stadtz, though he remained miraculously conscious through the ordeal, was becoming quite delusional.

"Why, I don't know, Sigismund," he was saying, "I could get my leg back I suppose! Let me ask those Halflings over there, they look quite plump. No, Margaret, I could _not_ spare a spoon for the likes of you!"

He rambled for a few minutes before he passed out, the cloth on his stump bleeding profusely, and Devoirlié was kind enough to throw him across the back of the horse he had borrowed from us (we did not discover for an hour or so that he was dead from exsanguinations).

It was Alex Bleusouche who dismounted to inspect the trap that had ultimately killed Stadtz, and his startling discovery served to lessen some of the guilt Devoirlié no doubt felt at having caused the mercenary to exsanguinate (though he never showed any signal of remorse). Bleusouche reported that the trap that had caught up Stadtz's leg had a poison painted along its teeth; so that anyone who activated the traps would no doubt be killed in short work.

He could tell this by the cancerous wounds along the shin that remained in the trap. The wounds were swollen and leaking sickly green pus which seemed to be burning the flesh as it dripped from the lost appendage.

We resolved that the best method for following these traps was to involve our servants, who we had cut down a great tree so that it would fall upon many of the traps and set them off. This worked for a majority of the traps, though it made the path so difficult that we had to send our horses back to the village to be maintained there by the local Lord, your Baron Simone du Lyone who was known to be the cousin of our own Leonne, thrice removed.

Following the path of the tree North and East, we discovered that the traps were set in ranks four deep and perhaps twenty or thirty astride, in waves so that there were pathways between them. Graives and Leonne went to follow the pathways between the hunters' traps and discovered that they created a wide arc in the wood, and that there were several pathways wide enough for perhaps a child to run through where food that was caught in the traps could be retrieved.

"Such odd fortification," I remarked to Devoirlié. He agreed, and we pressed deeper into the woods until we had passed through ten or so blockades of traps. The trees at this point were incredibly dense, and horned in a way we had not seen on trees of this type. At various intervals among the trees, branches twisted about each other to form grotesque symbols – supposedly of the rat men that Stadtz had said dwelled here.

"I would never know the wood folk to tolerate the presence of such creatures," remarked Leonne when I mentioned this to him. Leonne was lost in the forest for a great while as a youth, and was said to have befriended the fay folk who dwelt there before they returned him to his family. It was because of his kinship with the wood folk that Leonne paid special obeisance to our wooded surroundings, and he was much respected for it.

The sun vanished from above the trees all too quickly and we were forced to make camp in a thicket, eschewing fire in favor of the protection of darkness. We rested uneasily that night, hearing unnatural chittering and other strange noises from between the shadowed trees. The full moon failed to even shine its light here well, the canopy above us isolating us from the world.

It was unfortunately here that Graives met his end, as a foreign assassin snuck into our campsite and stabbed him in the heart while he rested; Llewelyn, who was on guard, heard the commotion and slew the beast with little effort, his steel ringing truth into the abominable creature's torso. We went the rest of the night without further interruption, though we did not doubt that there were eyes among the brush.

When daylight finally returned to us, we saw the ruined corpse of a skaven rat-man, bled out and stiff beside the stern and honorable corpse of dear Graives. From the body of the skaven we discovered that he was a member of a tribe or clan of some kind, tattoos burned on hairless parts of his body matching the bizarre shapes of twisted branches we could see all around us. Otherwise the rat-man held no beneficial information, so we abandoned its wasted corpse and proceeded to provide the best burial we could for our dear lost brother.

Llewelyn cried most for him, swearing to avenge his brother's fate upon the whole of the skaven race, and we drank from our supply of red wines that morning. Devoirlié gave us use of his cup, and we were honored to drink wine from it for the chalice had been blessed by the Archpriestess Arianna Wendiolynne in Couronne. We made our morning blessings in the cold and quiet forest, and Graives's page Lukas was assigned to remove his sad corpse on horseback so that Simone du Lyone could see to it that he found tomb beneath a chapel or in a proper mortuary.

It took little discussion to determine that, no matter how insane Stadtz had seemed, he was telling the truth about the existence of skaven within the forest of Ghâlons (though why he had described locations so particular to the Forest Arden I did not yet understand). Llewelyn was most adamant about resolving the issue by his own blade, and with haste; Monteaux and Libeaux both agreed that perhaps it would be better to muster our full force. We took a vote, and Devoirlié broke the tie in favor of rooting out the evil rat men ourselves.

It was after the voting was complete that my favorite servant, Ardur, returned from the forest with not only small game for breakfast but news as well. Ardur told that he had been attacked as he collected his prey and that by the grace of the Lady he had fended off a skaven poacher in order to win our breakfast (five healthy-looking rabbits and several pheasants' eggs). He chased the creature into a hole in the ground, and he was quite keen to show us where it was. Brave as young Ardur was in fending off the rat-shaped monstrosity, his courage was no match for a hive of such beasts.

After breakfast, we were led twenty minutes back the way we had come the afternoon before, into a thicket we had somehow passed (though Ardur stated he had noted its presence as a probable game hide during our trip). We were so packed within the thicket that we travelled single rank and file, I at the head and Ardur behind me muttering directions. I must admit that the skaven hole was cleverly disguised – even Ardur nearly passed it by.

Llewelyn charged forward to be first within the fissure, though I held him abreast when he reached me. His furious blue eyes met mine, and I stared him down.

"We must always approach the enemy with a level head," I told him. "Without being stable of mind, our chivalry will earn us no victory in combat."

Llewelyn's eyes didn't soften. "My head is level as it can be," he told me. "I know what I must do now, so please Brother duFonte let me pass."

I gauged him for a moment before letting him go, and he stepped down into the cavern. The gap in the earth was quite large, and only required bending over a little to enter. The ground sloped away beneath our feet as we were led down into the skaven nest that had somehow brewed beneath Ghâlons. After Llewelyn, I went, followed by Caldisse, then Alex Bleusouche, Libeaux, Andrew Bleusouche, Monteaux, Leonne and Devoirlié in the rear.

The cave was pitch for some ways, and the air fetid and hot. Roots from trees and plants hung like thick tangled webs from the low roof, and snagged on armor and weaponry on the walls. The foul smell of rotting carcasses and maggot feast seemed to breathe up the tunnel into our faces, and Andrew Bleusouche could hardly keep from retching. Perhaps a half hour's journey into the ground our way was lit dimly by small mushrooms which grew from cracks in the floor and ceiling. The roots receded slightly, becoming less cumbersome to our movement and providing room in which their glowing compatriots could glow.

Pathways diverted at random intervals from the main path, though none seemed to have the airflow of the direct passage, so it was with Llewelyn in the lead that we continued on down the tunnel without abatement. After a moment, Llewelyn stopped at a divergence where the path split into five different tunnels, some going up and some going down, but this juncture was certainly the source of the smell, even if it was not the source of the breathing wind on our faces.

At our feet lay the desiccated carcasses of many dead things- animals, men, and even other rat men. Cracked yellow bone jutted up from deep red gore at our feet, and it was not Andrew Bleusouche alone that vomited here. From the roof hung great rusty hooks on chains, which were stained with fresh blood and muscle as though something had been recently ripped from it with great force. What hungry beast fed here we dreaded to think about, but Leonne urged us to press on.

As Llewelyn took his first step into the blasted slime of corpses, his foot sank deep. Crying out, Llewelyn unsheathed his sword and began to flail as though some unseen assailant was attacking him. As he struggled, he waded deeper into the sewage and he sank visibly into the pit. We called out to him but Llewelyn would not answer, calling his invisible foe out as he became enveloped to his armpits in the sludge.

In answer, hundreds of vile rats swarmed from the five tunnels and into the pit, charging Llewelyn as he swung his sword hysterically. The filthy vermin shrieked wildly as they overran Llewelyn in the pit, and all we could do was to stand by and watch in dismay lest we join his horrid fate. Caldisse pulled out flint and tinder to light fire to the vermin, but Leonne stayed our comrade.

"If you light that here the entire cave will burn," said Leonne. "There are too many roots here. We must go back and find another passage around this pit."

We all looked on sadly as our brother was eaten alive. At least he seemed not to suffer, for his only screams were the same maddened curses that he had begun to shout as soon as he became enveloped in the slime. Alex Bleusouche led us in prayer for our brother when it was done, and the rats dissipated back into the shadowy tunnels from whence they came.

Our party had dwindled from eleven to eight, an unlucky number in my experience.

********

Reynald was still in awe of the object he had been given, and duFonte had noticed. With a shaky hand, Reynald moved to peel away the cloth wrapping from the object. DuFonte grabbed Reynald's leg to stop him.

"Pay attention, you ignorant cuss," duFonte spat. "I never said you could unwrap the object! Your only job in life now is to see it delivered to your Lord so that it can find its way to Couronne."

Reynald cast his vision down and fell on his face in apology. "I am sorry, my Lord. I shall see to it that it is delivered."

"Not without knowing its significance!" duFonte insisted. "When your Master asks, you shall tell him that I told you."

"As you instruct, my Lord duFonte, I shall tell him," replied Reynald, face still in the dirt.

DuFonte continued.

********

It would not be un-chivalrous of me to admit that our party found ourselves lost within the cave complexes of the skaven, sometimes ambling around blindly and other times following the dimly glowing fungus which seemed to be frequent there.

Devoirlié said we should turn back, muster a regiment of men-at-arms, and deploy them to destroy the cave system entirely. He was almost unanimously denied, however, especially at my behest. I insisted that having lost two questing knights was of some great significance and some reckoning must be accomplished that day. The other questing knights agreed, and so we continued on our misguided adventure.

We found other bizarre rooms, some with peculiar gray altars with skaven symbols carved crudely upon them, some with strange censers that hung from the ceiling on rusted chains. The fetid smell of death and corruption intensified in some of these rooms, particularly those which were stained with blood and had the bones of some poor victim of the skaven. Oddly, we found little actual evidence that there were any live skaven within the tunnels.

We came to a split in the tunnels and divided, myself taking Libeaux, Monteaux, and Andrew Bleusouche and Devoirlié taking Alex Bleusouche, Leonne, and Caldisse. No more than five minutes down our own passage, Alex Bleusouche came running back along the corridor to summon us back to the group.

Devoirlié and his team had discovered a massive cavern in which the skaven seem to have built themselves a kind of city. Large and small rats darted across the abandoned streets randomly as we passed, causing us to become paranoid. Indeed, on more than one occasion the best of us were jumping at the small skitter of a rat as it charged across our path, and even I myself drew my sword at the scraping of a rat climbing up a wall.

The city was something truly horrific to behold – structures of mud rose in bizarrely-shaped lumps at random intervals along what could only barely be called a street. Sign posts were mounted outside some of these lumps, and there were holes through which it seemed only a youth could fit comfortably dug into the side of the mounds. The whole town was dominated by a massive misshapen structure in the center of the chamber, which had poorly built scaffolding hanging off of the side and a great cracked bell hung in a dug-out alcove near the top. Libeaux shuddered at the sight of it, and likened it to a cathedral of human design, merely twisted to the rat-peoples' sinister purpose.

To that purpose, we made an oath to dislodge the bell from its mount and proceeded towards the building with caution. Vermin still skittered across our path, but I daresay it became so commonplace that the best of us became near complacent.

To this end, none of us paid any mind to the increasing scuttling until it was too late, and the enemy was upon us. In great numbers, the skaven surrounded us. They hissed, chittering angrily at us while brandishing vile rusted weaponry to threaten us. They stank of corruption and rotted meat, and as they pressed in their numbers seemed to swell even more.

Alex Bleusouche growled menacingly at them, and then turned to us with an evil grin.

"It is time to do the work of the Lady!" he told us, and unsheathed his sword quickly. We all drew our weapons with Alex, the sound of scraping metal as the blades escaped their scabbards causing the rat people to back up instinctually.

Each of us facing in a cardinal direction, our party charged at our ambushers. We were greatly outnumbered, perhaps fighting five or more of these creatures at a time. But their miniscule weapons were things like daggers and maces and sickles, and did not have the reach of our superior blades. Leonne assaulted a group of the beasts with the ancestral battle axe given to him by his father when he became a questing knight.

I engaged a band of rat-men myself, striking them down as they pressed in. For every skaven that fell, another two took his place. They were overpowering, but our chivalric skill prevailed us, at least for a time. I knocked down a pair of skaven with my shield and made a wide sweep with my long sword, decapitating one rat and swinging down into the ribs of the next rat in line. Deep red blood stained my blade as I pulled it out to stab the rat taking his comrade's place in battle, simultaneously using my shield to block a skaven that had leapt into the air in an attempt to bash my head in with a morning star.

From somewhere behind me, I heard Libeaux scream in pain. I wanted to look back to see what had become of him, but I was otherwise engaged with the skaven that were still swarming me. An unarmed rat jumped upon my blocking arm and began trying to bite through my chainmail, and I made an effort to shake the creature off.

Another shout for help, this one sounded like Andrew Bleusouche, and Caldisse's shout did not come long after.

The rat on my arm held fast, and another leapt onto my shoulders, struggling to remove my helmet. I swung my body around quickly, throwing the skaven on my back off balance and into his allies. I stabbed down at a rat that was swinging at my leg with a rusted sickle. The bright red blood that spurted from the artery in his neck spat into his friend's eye, and the blinded rat shrieked in agony.

There was suddenly a loud ringing, as though a great gong had been struck, and I realized that someone must have rang the bell in the skaven cathedral. Without second thought, the attackers let go of me and my companions and skittered off in the direction of the cathedral.

In our complacent advancement on the accursed structure, we had come quite close to it. The massive building loomed above us, merely two or three mound-blocks away.

Panting, I dropped to my knees. The years had not prepared me for such an overwhelming onslaught. I looked around to see what had become of my companions.

Monteaux was picking something up from nearby, and it wasn't long before I realized that it was his arm, which he was trying to prize from his kite shield. In his delirium, he hadn't yet noticed that his cousin had been slain. Caldisse's body lay twisted and flayed not far from me, his armor stripped violently from his body and his weapons nowhere in sight. Devoirlié was supporting Alex Bleusouche, who was limping from a massive gash on the side of his leg. He had been caught by one of the skaven's poisoned sickles. His brother's body was gone.

Leonne was on his knees, head bowed. Beside him, his ancestral battle axe had lay with its haft shattered from battle. He did not move. The skaven had slit his throat, and he had died in that sorrowful pose.

"My lords," came a whisper from the shadows, and weary heads flicked in the direction of a mound behind Monteaux. Caldisse's page, Felix, hopped down from on top of the mound carrying a longbow. Monteaux dropped his sword and removed his helmet, wavering where he stood.

"We must leave this place," Felix warned. "We waited for some time, Lords, but when we heard the shouting of Master Llewelyn we came to investigate. We all followed you down here but the rat men killed us off one by one. I was lucky to survive, my Lords, but we must leave now and return here with a greater force."

"The boy speaks truth," said Devoirlié firmly. The confused Monteaux nodded vigorously.

"The bell seems to be their source of power," I said. "Its ring drew them away from us."

"A lucky guess," admitted Felix. "I could think of no other way of drawing them away from you."

"No, boy," I said. "I mean we must destroy the bell and leave them in ruin before we egress from this place."

"You're mad, duFonte!" cried Alex Bleusouche. "I vote we make a hasty escape now so that we may come back and conquer these foul invaders."

Monteaux nodded vigorously again.

"No vote required," said Devoirlié. "We are leaving."

My friends turned to make leave, but I stayed. Felix picked up his old master's corpse and slung it limply over his shoulders. After a moment, Devoirlié turned back to me.

"Do not be foolish, George" he said. "The Lady has blessed us with this chance to regroup. Let us not squander it."

"Fie upon you," I replied. "When the skaven discover there is no threat to their church they will surge back upon us and slay us before we escape the tunnels. We must press on."

Alex Bleusouche sighed. "There is truth to what he says."

Devoirlié gave Alex a harsh look. "We cannot believe that the Lady will let us perish so."

I stood solemnly and addressed Devoirlié.

"You are right, brother, I am being foolish," I said. Devoirlié looked somewhat relieved. "As one man I can sneak up to the bell far easier and dislodge it from its perch. As the least injured, I am the perfect candidate for the task."

Devoirlié's eyes widened. "Can you not hear the madness you speak, duFonte? What malevolence has overcome you so that you must pursue such an erroneous mission?"

My countenance darkened, and I sheathed my sword. "Goodbye, Devoirlié. If I do not return, then remember me to my people as a man who fulfilled my oaths."

I turned and ran towards the skaven cathedral as Devoirlié called for me to return. I do not know what became of my colleagues, and I can only assume that they perished at the hands of our enemies.

********

DuFonte coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. He did not have long left to live, and his breathing was becoming labored.

"If, in your travels, you come to meet my former retinue," duFonte spluttered. "Make sure Devoirlié receives the object. He will know what to do."

"My Lord, of course," Reynald said.

********

Climbing the skaven cathedral was no easy task, the gray wood of the scaffolding shattering beneath my armored bulk. The dried mud of the walls was little better, crumbling away beneath my grip, but I managed to reach the alcove which housed the bell after a great effort.

Looking down from the cathedral, I could see Skaven in the streets looking up at me. There were thousands of them. Courage swelled in my breast as I knew what I had to do. I drew my sword and kicked the bell as hard as I could.

As the large bell swung away from me, I chopped at the heavy rope holding it up with my sword. The dried hemp rope sliced easily, and the weight of the bell caused it to crush the roof I was standing on. I was free-falling.

Pain shot through my legs as I smashed into the ground, crumpling beside the bell as it shattered on the stone floor of the cavern. There was no gap between the destruction of the bell and the rush of angered skaven clanrats. They swarmed me, beating, tearing, biting, and clawing. I heard a loud call in a language I did not understand, and, as though they had once again heard the bell ring, the skaven retreated.

Through my bruised and bloodied eyes I saw a single tall rat man wearing long gray robes. His fur was a matching color of gray and he carried a metal staff with what almost appeared to be a misshapen goat's skull atop. The skaven approached me in the dark cathedral, his nose twitching; his eyes were a deep blue and had a disturbing kind of intelligence to them that disquieted me.

It spoke to me in a kind of Imperial I barely understood – a form of low speech used by the poorest of Imperial citizens.

"No-brain," it spat at me. "Head's right backwards but sure done mess making good. Cold corpse now, though, less he speaks me 'bout what I fancy."

"I shall say nothing to compromise my people," I said, though the words were distorted by some damage to my face. The surrounding skaven seemed to chortle at this.

"Skeezer!" cried the gray rat, and another rat wearing robes pushed through the crowd and the darkness to join his leader. The new rat's robes were dark, and he wore some kind of metal mask. In one hand, Skeezer carried a smoking censer that smelled of burnt flesh. In the other, a bottle full of thick violet liquid.

"Dead him up," said the gray rat, gesturing to me. The skaven called Skeezer conferred with his boss briefly, and then approached me.

I could hear Skeezer's breathing, ragged and labored beneath his metal mask. His milky eyes peered out at me through green glass portals in the side of the mask, and behind the advancing executioner the gray rat bared its teeth in what I can only assume was meant to be a smile.

Skeezer reached into his robes and fiddled around with something inside of them, finally producing a small vial, no bigger than my pinky, which contained a strange swill that sat in the glass in layers. The bottom layer was thick bile yellow, the middle sickly black, and the top disturbingly clear. Skeezer shook the vial violently and then gestured to me.

From somewhere behind me I was seized by four or five rats, their clawed hands gripping my chainmail to my body tightly. One grabbed my head and forced it back so that my neck was straight. With its free hand, the rat restraining my head pulled my mandible down so that my mouth was wide open. I struggled against their hold, but to no avail. There were simply too many skaven holding me down.

Using his thumb, Skeezer popped the cork out of the top of his vial and tipped it over my mouth. Ice cold liquid dripped onto my tongue, burning it and making my teeth ache from the very chill of it. My breath was stolen by its arctic temperature, and I could feel the heavy solution slide slowly down my gullet and into my esophagus. The fluid tasted metallic in my maw and wouldn't seem to leave my tongue entirely no matter how much saliva tried to wash it away.

The contents of his bottle empty, Skeezer tossed the vial away and stepped back. He nodded slowly to the gray rat, and I was released.

I instantly felt weak, my body robbed of its life force. My eyelids felt heavy and I knew I was fatally poisoned. There would be no recovery from this. The gray rat approached me, and whispered in my ear.

********

DuFonte stopped. His jaw worked for a moment but no sound came out. His eyes rolled over to look at Reynald, who stood in stupefied silence.

"What did he say, Lord?" asked Reynald.

DuFonte mumbled something incoherent. "He wants to conquer these lands no matter how many rats he loses. He will stop at nothing."

"So I've got to warn Baron du Lyone?" asked Reynald.

"He knew I was dying," duFonte muttered. "Still he tortured and beat me, tying me to a stake and roasting me on a spit in jest."

Reynald moved away from the rambling man.

"I – I am finished," said duFonte, but he said it to no one.

The knight's head rolled forwards, black froth bubbling at his lips as he eschewed his terminal breath.

In the evening sky, the sun shone a weak orange through the trees. Deep shadows were cast by the tall woods, and the quiet chittering of vermin had crept up on the pig farmer as he unsteadily made his way away from the fallen grail knight.

He could see nothing, and turned his back on the forest to run back to the safety of his farm. He tossed the pitchfork aside as he vaulted over his fence, still clutching the object that was so sacred to George duFonte. Scaring his animals as he blundered through the milling creatures, Reynald barreled into his farmhouse.

He ran to his oak dining table and began to unwrap duFonte's parcel. With shaking hands he removed a small black tome from the cloth wrapping, its leather cover worn and its yellowed pages dog-eared and falling out. On its cover was engraved a symbol of three circles which formed a triangle, intersected with arrows that pointed outwards from between them. Rather than smelling like old paper, the book smelled of rotten meat, and the flies that buzzed near the ceiling flew lower to drone around Reynald's head.

From outside, Reynald's pigs began to screech. There were bodily thuds and the sounds of bodies splashing into mud. The old man moved to the window and stood horrified at what he saw. Advancing through his pig pen, a large number of rat men were slaying his livestock as they approached his house. Their fur was grizzled, their beady black eyes filled with malice. Reynald knew they wanted their book back.

The pig farmer retrieved the book and its wrapping and bolted to the rear door, slamming through it and charging down the road. Over his labored breathing he could barely hear a whizzing sound, and Reynald was knocked prostrate with tremendous force.

It felt as though he had been struck viciously in the back with some large object. His legs were weak, and he felt dizzy, his breaths coming rapid and shallow. Just out of grasp in front of him, the book lay spread open on its pages, soaking up the mud in the road.

Reynald crawled forward and reached for the tome. He could hear the skaven approaching behind him. Just as he was about to grab it, a disgusting clawed foot stepped on his wrist. A long and hairy face leaned over to look into Reynald's, and it bared its teeth.

"Can't have that," said the rat, and it picked the tome up from in front of Reynald.

With a spluttering noise, the skaven severed Reynald's neck.

********

In the subsequent weeks, a sect of Clan Pestilens launched a massive invasion into Bordeleaux. The battles were costly and great, with the plague rats spreading death and disease wherever they went. The tale of George duFonte is told now by Bretonnian questing knights to their squires, to teach them that there is no enemy that should be underestimated, and when there is doubt as to your own strength it is best to regroup.

Very few knights follow their own advice after telling this story to their squires.


End file.
